


Try Before You Buy

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Adjacent [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drinking, Drinking & Talking, M/M, Propositions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22769446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's surprised when Mycroft sits beside him at the pub.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Adjacent [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1075677
Comments: 39
Kudos: 182





	Try Before You Buy

Friday night had never been so welcome, and the speed at which the office had emptied told Greg he was not the only one relieved to have the week finally done. With all the overtime his team had put in over the past ten days, nobody was expected back until Monday, and they’d bolted before another case could come in. He didn’t blame them. A few more signatures and he’d be out too; better to just finish this up so he’d have an empty desk on Monday morning.

The novelty of it made Greg smile as he signed the last approval for overtime with a flourish. He sat back, stretching his neck out for a second before making like the rest of his team: he grabbed his stuff and heading for the pub.

+++

Greg expected to have to find his team when he entered the crowded pub, but as it turned out, they saw him first. From the enthusiasm of his reception, he was a solid couple of pints behind the rest of the team. When he copped a bit for his tardiness Greg pointed out that he was approving their overtime; another cheer and a pint appeared in his hand.

“Christ, you lot are pissed!” he exclaimed, drinking half the beer in one go, inspiring at least two DCs to race him. Another cheer, and thankfully someone else beat him, drawing attention from everyone and allowing Greg to find himself a seat. His fatigue and the beer combined to make him pleasantly buzzed and soft around the edges, and he let the flow of sound wash around him for a while.

It wasn’t until someone dropped into the seat beside him that Greg understood someone was trying to make proper conversation.

“I beg your pardon?” he said carefully, realising his empty pint had been replaced and he was perhaps more tired than he realised.

Mycroft Holmes sat beside him, tugging with exactitude at the tip of each finger of his gloves, drawing Greg’s attention as he drew them off his long fingers. It was mesmerising, the slow repetition, pinch-tug-pinch-tug. When Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat, Greg forced himself to look away, though he was acutely conscious of Mycroft’s gloves. They were placed in a precise pile beside his glass which to Greg’s surprise contained…

“Is that a martini?”

“It is,” Mycroft replied smoothly.

Greg grinned to himself. “You have no idea how tempted I am to say…”

“Shaken is my preference also,” Mycroft supplied with amusement. He raised one eyebrow at Greg over the rim of his glass, daring him to continue the analogy. There was a whisper of something more about the expression on his face, but Greg ignored it. No doubt it was more in the interpretation than reality.

“No comment, I don’t want to get whisked away,” Greg said. “Too much paperwork.” When Mycroft raised one eyebrow, he explained, “I must have gone through a dozen ballpoints this week filling in forms.”

“You should invest in a fountain pen,” Mycroft replied, long fingers toying with the olive-bearing toothpick resting in his glass. “Smoother writing action, and you can refill the ink as necessary.”

“I have no idea about fancy pens,” Greg said. Keeping his eyes off Mycroft’s hand was a challenge, all the possible activities in which those fingers could indulge dancing through his head. “I’d have to get you to help me pick one.” Christ, he hoped Mycroft hadn’t noticed how flirty that had just sounded. Or perhaps he did. Or was that the beer talking?

“I would be pleased to do so,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated before glancing at Greg. “I have quite a collection at my flat if you would prefer to try before you buy, as they say.”

Greg felt his eyebrows rise at the definitely flirty tone. Recklessly, he blurted, “Well I’m done for the week, if you’re offering…”

For a long beat they stared at each other.

Mycroft was frozen, olive halfway to his lips. He looked shell shocked, teeth plucking the olive from the toothpick absently as his eyes judged Greg’s intention. For his part, Greg was wondering if he could possibly get away with pretending he was joking. He was about to force a smile to his face when Mycroft raised his martini and drained the glass in one.

“I have a car outside.” The words were low but definite. An offer of…something. More than fountain pens, Greg thought.

He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to down his own drink by pressing his fingers into the polished wood. Without a word he nodded.

The next few minutes were a blur – standing to leave, taking a second to allow his head to right itself; the ghost of a hand in the small of his back as he navigated the tables, ignoring the whispers and calls of his colleagues. Suddenly he was sliding into the back of one of Mycroft’s black cars, leather seat cool against his palms.

“Mycroft,” he murmured, turning to face the man now settled on the seat beside him.

“Yes?”

“Is this…” he swallowed. “What is this?”

“Why Gregory,” Mycroft drawled, and there was no pretence now, the amusement glittering in his eyes with a darker edge of _want want want_. “I thought you wanted to see my fountain pen.”

For a long slow second, Greg’s brain fought with itself, and then he burst out laughing. “Christ, Mycroft,” he gasped. “That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard.”

“To be clear,” Mycroft began, a shadow of uncertainty rising in his eyes, but Greg had heard enough.

“Just get over here, you twat,” he said, tugging on Mycroft’s lapels, meeting him in the middle for a slightly off centre kiss. Messy and with zero finesse, it nevertheless birthed something dark and primal in Greg’s belly.

“I’m not sure I appreciate being called a ‘twat’,” Mycroft murmured when Greg pulled away enough to right his swirling head.

“Affectionate term,” Greg replied distractedly, pressing kisses down Mycroft’s neck.

“Drunk term,” Mycroft retorted. He was hardly protesting, head hanging to one side as Greg explored the long stretch of pale skin.

“Yep,” Greg agreed, the words hitting skin first. “Can’t use my brain for too much right now.”

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft purred, “you won’t need it for what I have in mind.”


End file.
